


Peregrine

by roxymissrose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, First Time, Light Angst, Love, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-21
Packaged: 2018-03-25 05:20:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3798238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roxymissrose/pseuds/roxymissrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Sam have always loved each other and have been in love most of their lives. They are brothers, friends and lovers. Sometimes Dean's an idiot, but Sam can live with that. Their road is long, full of turns, but it's always good because they're together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Notes/Warnings: brief scene featuring prostitution, brief, non-graphic mention of underage prostitution, some scenes of underage sex (Sam is 13/14, Dean is 17/18) 
> 
> The wonderful artwork is by [lightthesparks](http://lightthesparks.livejournal.com/111829.html)
> 
> Originally posted at samdean_otp for the 2014 mini-bang   
> 11-13-2014

Sunlight streamed through the windshield, warming the leather as it heated the interior of the car, coaxing out the scents seeped deep into its pores over the years: plastic, boys' sweat, years of take-out, the heavy scent of Old Spice, the faint hint of blood. An experienced person, possibly a healer or a hunter, could pick out other smells as well, such as the stink of medicinal and protective herbs and oils. 

These were the smells that defined their lives; combined, it was the smell of home. It made Sam feel safe, and when he felt safe, he threw himself into sleep as if falling into the arms of the only one who knew him. 

Sam sprawled unconcerned, spread wide as possible in the car—knees against the dash, one elbow against the door and the other against Dean's ribs. His head was tilted against the seat back, chestnut-brown hair blowing everywhere because both the passenger and driver's side windows were rolled down. His thin t-shirt was riding up so that the sun warmed his belly, not too hot yet but it would be soon, even with both windows open to the wind. Sam blinked, scratching at sun-browned skin left bare by the too tight, too old tee—his ragged nails catching on hair straggling its way down into the waist of his jeans. He yawned. He knew Dean was watching, and he didn't give a shit. Dean was always watching. His dick perked up at the notion, but he was too tired, too hot, to give it any real thought.

"Dean. Find a gas station, I need something to drink."

Dean grunted. Whether that meant yes or no, Sam had no idea, but a few miles down the road a gas station emerged. It looked like, at some point deep in the past, it had leaped off the path the rest of the world was taking and hidden itself in a pocket of time. 

It was single story gray clapboard sitting on an asphalt pad. Gas pumps from another decade stood sentinel in the lot, covered by a canopy with the brand displayed on it in red and white gone pink and robin's egg blue with time and weather. The gray building had grayish windows and a long gray porch down one side. A single step up led to a glass door so dirty, it was gray too. The whole damn place was a gray slash wavering in a red dust landscape under a colorless sky. 

Sam looked around and shook his head. It was exactly the kind of place in which a pack of obnoxious college kids would inadvertently insult the inbred inhabitants of a tiny town full of cannibals and end up on the spit—except for the outrageously handsome hero and his girlfriend, of course—Sam frowned for a second before shrugging. It was his mind, so Dean was the girlfriend in that scenario. Sam smiled and pushed through the grimy door, ignoring the cracked bell that clanked loudly at his entrance. Half a second later, Dean was practically plastered to his back as he barged in behind Sam.

Inside, the wood floor thumped under their footsteps, a rhythmic, thunk-thunk that played a counterpart to the _whup_ of metal fan blades working futilely against the heat. 

Sam stopped and Dean moved on past him, sliding so close that their belt loops caught and rubbed against each other. Sam inhaled sharply and the smell of the place hit him hard all at once. Memories of a lifetime on the road, grabbing gas station food, cascaded over him. Things that not too long ago he'd thought he'd left behind forever…sorrow whisked through him, so quickly it was gone before he truly registered feeling it….

He inhaled again and crooked a smile at Dean, crowding his shoulder. Somewhere in the place was a pickle barrel. Dean grinned and waggled his eyebrows. Dean loved pickles. Sam kind of loved watching him eat them. Dean grinned wider and slapped him on the shoulder, hard enough to make Sam's hair flip forward, and headed to the coolers.

"Grab me one," Sam called, and Dean nodded, bent into a fridge case filled with Orange Crush and Dr. Pepper and Royal Crown.

Dean pulled back with a triumphant look, and dropped two sweating bottles of Royal Crown on the Formica-covered counter. "Hey man, got a bathroom?" he asked the kid behind the counter. The kid was busy with a comic and barely looked at Dean before flipping him a key screwed into a foot long section of wood sawed off a two by two. Magic marker chicken-scratch on the side let him know that it was the key to the men's room.

Dean swaggered to the back of the place. He knew without having to see it that the place was going to be horrible—dark, rank and dirty, with a mirror made of fly-specked stainless steel and again, so dirty it was about worthless to use. He opened the door and was not disappointed—the reek almost knocked him off his feet. He figured this degree of filth had to be on purpose, a way to keep folks from hanging out a little too long in the dank little hole. 

He unzipped and aimed and let loose, heaving a drawn-out sigh of relief.

He closed his eyes and a memory crept up on him—long ago, a decade gone by now. 

Little Sam, Sammy, so sweet and so soft, the last traces of baby fat starting to melt off his cheeks to reveal sharp wings of cheekbone. He remembered the jaw line just starting to harden. He remembered pink, smooth lips wrapping around the head of his dick and how he'd fumbled around, wet and too loose and then too tight, too much teeth…he'd been on the edge, just beginning to know what to do….

"Fuuuck." 

Dean looked down at his traitorous hand, his greedy thumb smoothing a drop of precome back into the velvety slit…"Shit."

Last thing he needed to do was jack off in this dump. He was probably getting an STD just standing in its humid, germ-filled air.

He stuffed his dick back in his pants and wondered if he had more chance of contracting some disease washing his hands in that sink, or just letting it go.

A sharp rap at the door made his mind up. Hell no, he'd grab a bunch of wet wipes from the car. 

He opened the door and there was Sam with the wet wipes from the car. "Sammy. Always two steps ahead, hunh?"

Sam just grinned. "Got Hostess cupcakes and power bars and some Slim Jims. Forget caffeine until we find some place you can't smell burnt coffee from the parking lot."

Dean laughed, stuck a Slim Jim in his teeth, and went out to the pumps. They gassed up and left, sun still glaring down on them, but the cold RCs made it seem okay.

"I fucking told you, stay behind me, what the fuck were you thinking jumping in front of me like that?"

"I was thinking your fat ass was in my fucking way."

"I had everything under control. I had that damn ghost salted and burned all ready."

"In your mind—oh, goddamn it! You've got hands like a fucking lobster. Oh fuck, that hurts."

"Shit, damn, I'm sorry—one more stitch, okay, and then a pill and you can lay down, okay, dude?"

"Yeah," Sam panted, his voice going high in a way he hated, because it freaked Dean out and then he fussed and clung and treated Sam like he was…Sam shook his head. "Not like…not a kid…" Sam groaned, hissed at the pull of thread in his skin.

"I know that…" Dean murmured. He was smoothing Sam's hair back, wiping sweat off his face, shoving a glass with a splash of booze in the bottom at him and slipping a Percocet into his hand. 

"What—y'tryina kill me."

"Thimble full of booze, not gonna hurt ya. Go 'head, swallow." He got Sam's boots off, for which Sam was grateful as fuck. He eased Sam down to the bed, carefully. The gash the ghost had swept across his gut with a piece of broken mirror, shallow but long, pulled painfully at the sutures. 

He curled his hand around the glass Dean had handed him and hissed—he'd just been reminded by the sting of many, many splinters how very much _not_ fun it was to fly through a cabinet door. He bit back the curses and the scream he really wanted to let go, and gulped the whiskey, washing the Percocet down with it. Just like that, a wave of thick, smothering exhaustion swept over him. The pillows under his head felt like fucking clouds, the thin blanket felt like silk and when Dean smoothed it over his shoulders, he couldn’t help but groan. Dean, Dean, Dean…fucking everything came down to Dean, the fucking bastard….

"I gotta sleep," Sam slurred. "Come lie down here wi' me so's I c'n sleep. Need you."

"You always need me when you're fucked up."

"Umh-hm."

  


Heat made Sam sleepy, always had. It made him horny, too. Probably because the first time he'd had anything even approaching sex, it'd been in a hot box of a room; the typical kind of crappy little hole that their dad would drop them in, and then disappear for weeks at a time. At an age that Sam had long since stopped caring _(being so afraid)_ that their dad wouldn’t ever show up again.

He liked the heat, he's always liked the heat. 

 

Noise ricocheted around the little bathroom—the slap of a wet palm against soap-scuzzed tile sounded like a gunshot. Hot air blew through the small window, slow motion waves of heat that did nothing to relieve the sauna-like atmosphere. Sam stood in the dry tub, face and hand and hip against the wall and Dean inside him, rocking deep and slow, barely moving, trying to watch out for Sam's gut, still a bit tender where the stitches had been. Grunt, then push, grunt then push…Sam felt like he was frying, fucking boiling out all the air in his lungs, hot…hot….

"Yeah, yeah, baby boy, fuck, yeah, gotcha, so damn hot…"

Too much noise for the little bathroom to contain—the squelch of lube and sweat, low cursing, ragged growling, slap of skin against skin—made sex sound like a fight. Dean rocked his hips, barely moving—grinding in a deep as he could, his balls rubbing warm and heavy against Sam's hyper-sensitive skin. He fought a cramp as Dean gripped his thigh, digging his fingers in tight, just a shade from painful, and lifted his leg higher. Stars burst along every nerve, shot straight to his dick. He went loose in Dean's grasp and trusted he wouldn't let him drop. "…gotcha, fuck…fucking hot, my dick, goddamn…sucking it up, gonna come all over, inside you, mine…"

 

Sam let it all go, let the heat take him, spin him out thin like strands of cotton candy. Felt like he was going to come just from Dean fucking him—that and his stupid, stupid, embarrassing sex talk. Sam wanted to laugh at him, tell him how bad it was, breathed out a gasp instead. Standing in a dry tub, no shower curtain because staggering into the tub, they'd had yanked it off the rod and left it crumpled on the floor. Their clothes, what little they could stand on their skins these days, lay scattered across the grimy floor as well, their shoes tossed in corners, towels pulled from the rack and tangled with a spooled-out roll of toilet paper and now—now—Sam was shouting because Dean was shouting and coming, and Sam only needed the touch of Dean's hand, sure and confident on his dick. It felt like exploding, one frame at a time, until every sensation caught up to fast-forward him right into ecstasy. Come streaked across the tiles, dripped over Dean's hand. 

Dean groaned, rubbed his mouth and nose slowly, gently over the back of Sam's sweat-slippery neck, replete—and then cursed like crazy when they slipped on a glob of come, or maybe conditioner, lying in wait on the tub bottom. They almost fell out of it—both yelped as Dean was ripped out of Sam. 

"Son-of-a-bitch!"

"Asshole! Shit, damn it, my _ass!"_

"What the fuck are you yellin' at me for, wasn't my fault…god, I think I threw my back out…"

"Fuck your back, old man; I think you damaged me for life. Jesus."

Dean grabbed Sam's arm and turned him to face away. "Lemme see."

"No!" 

"What, once the sex fog goes 'way, you turn into a prude? Lemme see that you're okay."

Sam huffed and sighed but bent over and let Dean pull his cheeks apart. Half an hour ago it was hot as hell, but right now it was just fucking embarrassing. 

"You're okay. Hold up…"

"Why, what's wro—oh! Fu—fuck." Sam's hips jerked upwards. Dean's tongue chased him, warm and wet and smooth, wiggling against his abused hole, soothing the burn and turning him on all over again. Dean was a jerk, a hot…"fucking sexy _jerk."_

Dean laughed right into his hole and Sam slapped backwards, trying to hit him. 

He was never going to tell Dean how good that felt.

 

\+ + +

_"Remember the first time?" Sam asked._

_"The first, first time, or the time I got your cherry?"_

_"You know, Dean, you're just—you're just disgusting. Why do I bother trying to talk to you?"_

_"Because you love me. And the first, first time was disturbing and mentally scarred me for life."_

_"Asshole."_

Led Zeppelin blared out of the speakers, miraculously at a level Sam could deal with. Dean was feeling generous, and why not? The case had been a text book example of a hunt. In and out, smooth as glass. He grinned at his brother, who blazed a grin right back at him, and topped it with a wink and a look in his eye that promised mayhem. Sam laughed. "Find us a place—"

"Oooh, Sam, eager little bea—"

"So I can research, ya frickin' horn dog. Need a place to set up—unless you want to just drive around aimlessly."

Dean looked thoughtful about that. "You know what? Sounds like a good idea, parking it for a minute, I mean. Let's just—drive a bit, see where it takes us?"

"Okay," Sam agreed. "Feels like we've been going at it non-stop. It couldn't hurt to take a little breather."

They drove on, Dean singing along on and off with Robert Plant, Sam's head rocking to the rhythm of the road, the movement slowly dragging his hair to and fro across the seat back, like Baby was stroking him. Dean hit a bump and Sam drifted to his side, his face sticking to the warm upholstery. Smelled like Dean, and it made him hum in contentment. Warmth and his brother, the swaying motion of the road, Dean radiating heat at his side, solid and hard but soft too…Sam smiled and sank deeper into sleep, a dreamless cocoon of safety and _home._

They found a place to drop anchor for a bit—cheap, but surprisingly clean. Sam, though—still working through being spoiled by having his own place for a few years—man, he complained. _Blah, blah, Rumplestiltskin couldn't get comfortable in the tub,_ and _blah, the bed's aren't big enough for hobbits, blah_ and _blah, blah, the towels were made of 1-ply toilet paper._

Dean felt a little sorry for him, but mostly ignored him, spending his time puttering around the room. He dumped their duffles on a bed and separated laundry into his and his piles, and subtly nudged the filled bags Sam's way. He set the room's coffeemaker to brewing, pulled the last of their power bars out of a side pocket on his duffle, and set up his guns on the edge of the nightstand. 

This was good, this was right—Sam working away at whatever, his breathing slow and steady—steadying—from the opposite side of the room. He adjusted the table lamp, rolled out his cleaning kit, and got to work. 

He glanced at Sam from time to time. He couldn't keep his eyes off his brother for long. Sam was…handsome. He was a fuckin' good-looking guy; someone who turned heads all the time and not just because he was so tall. And not just because he was hot either. There was something about Sam that drew people in. People liked Sam. They should. No matter what happened to that boy, he was the one good Winchester in the family, the only one who had heart….

And now here he was, away from what might have been and neck deep in what was…Dean sighed, set the cleaned Taurus down. He couldn't even pretend to regret Sam being back. Sorry how it happened, yeah, of course. Sorry that Sam was his again? Never. 

He stroked his finger down the Taurus' smooth, stainless steel barrel, over the mother-of-pearl grips. A pretty gun for a pretty boy. He laughed to himself, but Sam was still nose-deep in whatever he was doing…probably writing up the last few cases they'd cleared. He stood, stretched to pull his spine straight, and groaned a little at the tug of muscle. Must have been at it longer than he'd thought. His stomach gurgled slightly in agreement, and he never argued with his stomach if he could help it. He padded to the doorway, slipped his feet into his boots, and grabbed the keys. Dean bet himself he could find food and drinks and be back before Sam even knew he was gone.

Sam showered, changed into sweats and dropped his bag on the table. He gathered the fistful of napkins and receipts and notepaper and whatnot he'd scribbled notes on—about the case, about the victims, about their own reactions—and tossed them on the table too. He'd take the bare notes he had on the laptop version of the _Winchester Guide to Hunting Shit,_ combine them with his field notes, cross-reference them with Dad's journal and maybe one day (if he and Dean were lucky enough to live that long) they'd be their generation's version of Bobby—and they'd have something useful and informative to draw on.

Sam had just settled in when the familiar smell of coffee and gun oil let Sam know Dean was doing his own version of meditation. It felt…complete. 

Sam was unaware how deep he'd fallen into his head until he heard the room door open. He hadn't even realized that Dean had left…not that he was going to let his brother know that, Dean would give him shit about it until the end of time. 

Behind him came the crinkle of bags, smelling of something good, and his stomach growled. That was another good thing about Dean. He was right on time, as always. 

"Hiya. I just brought a snack, basically. Found a place to eat. You wanna?" Dean dropped the bag on the table and murmured, "You need a break," before brushing his lips over Sam's. "Why don’t you wrap it up here, hmm?"

"Okay." Sam closed down the laptop, grabbed his jacket from the back of the other chair. He lifted his arm and sniffed. "Should I shower first, change this shirt?"

"Nah. It's just a little hole-in-the-wall diner, but the food looked good. Got these donuts from there." He nudged the bag into Sam's elbow. 

"Hunh." Sam fished one out of the bag, took a bite. "Sh—tha's goo—still warm," he said, swallowing. 

"Told you. Hold up," Dean said and leaned over the table to Sam. "You got a little something—" he pulled Sam close and kissed him, licking the crystallized sugar from the corners of his mouth. Sam gazed up at Dean, the way his eyes crinkled with that little smile; god that smile made him crazy…

"Sucker," Dean said, but Sam knew what he really meant. "C'mon, let's go eat. I'm hungry enough to eat a moose."

"Shadup."

\+ + + 

The diner was as promised—kind of a dump, but a dump that was proud of itself. He glanced over at the fans in the corners of the place; big. old-fashioned metal things on poles…what place didn’t have A/C anymore? They made a lot of noise, but it was still hot. Where his skin was bare, it stuck to the booth he slid into. Almost immediately he could feel the back of his neck break out in sweat and his hair start to curl against it. Still, the place was scrupulously clean, clean as their room had been, and the food was outstanding. They both had meatloaf, because usually places like this knew what meatloaf was all about, and the thick slab covered with brown gravy and caramelized onions was just what they needed. They ate like they'd gone without food for days. Which was pretty much true, since power bars and coffee and packaged sandwiches were no substitute for hot, fresh food. The meatloaf came with mac and cheese as a side, along with fresh green beans with bits of bacon in them—enough bacon that even Dean probably liked them.

Sam loaded a fork full of mac and cheese, looked up to catch Dean beaming at him. So, yeah, it hadn’t been all that long ago that he could hardly bring himself to choke down a salad— _a slice of bread_ —let alone a full meal.

"Stop," Sam said, and Dean just grinned wider. 

They ate, got coffee, and Sam watched Dean attack a slab of pie the size that only Dean got, in any diner anywhere. A double size portion of pie, stuffed with cherries and cinnamon and sweet syrup, flaky crust that smelled like vanilla cookies, topped with a few scoops of really good ice-cream—he'd had to try it, what with the pornographic noises his brother was making. It was either nibble a bit or fuck him over the table….

_"The first, first time, or the time you gave me your cherry?"_

Sam watched him eat, red staining his mouth, and it brought up images of Dean's mouth swollen and red from long, teasing blowjobs, images that fought with others of Dean's mouth stained red with blood…he blinked hard and shook his head, frowning. No one needed ideas like that in their head, especially not with the way his brother was staring at him and licking his fork like he wanted to have a deep, personal, life-altering relationship with it. 

"You're such an asshole," Sam said. He slid out of the booth, tossed some bills on the table, and headed to the bathroom.

Like he figured, Dean was behind him a minute or two later. He backed into a stall, grinning, as Dean shot the lock home and followed. Sam unzipped quickly and pulled his dick out, "I'd give you a show, but we’ve got like, seconds…pretend I'm pie."

Dean choked back a laugh and dropped to his knees. "Cherry," he whispered and Sam snorted.  
Not hardly.

Dean licked his lips and opened, let Sam guide his dick in. He let Sam ride his tongue, let him shove his dick in deep. Sam cursed softly, the way Dean's throat tightened up, choking and gagging, drool running down his chin and dripping down Sam's dick, wetting his balls and sticking his hair together. Shit…he grabbed the back of Dean's neck with one hand, curled his other around the side of Dean's face—held him in place and fucked his mouth. Dean gagged and gasped, his nose and eyes running, but not once did he reach out and try to hold Sam back. Instead, he fought to keep Sam in, lips pulling at him. Sam threw his head back and just…felt it. The head of his dick bumping and sliding over the soft inside of Dean's mouth, each time almost lodging in Dean's throat. He slid his hand down and felt his dick inside of Dean, felt where his lips stretched around it, how hot and swollen they were to the touch.

"Fuck, D—I'm gonna come—" he shoved his dick in deep as he could, Dean's gag reflex triggering, the noise he made as he struggled not to retch was disgusting—and tripped Sam's switch…

"Fuck, fuck, son of a bitch—" he pulled out and shot against Dean's mouth, lacing come over his chin as Dean struggled to breathe again. Sam stared at the picture Dean made; his come looked startlingly white against the deep red Dean's lips had gone. The hand at the back of Dean's head slipped upwards and into his hair, his thumb rubbed come into his cheek, he scooped come off Dean's chin with his other hand, pushed gooey fingers between Dean's red-flushed lips. They were silky, swollen, still hot to the touch. "Fuck, Dean."

Sam let him go and Dean dropped forward onto his hands and knees—he heaved once, gulping, and gasping for air. "Fucking toppy bastard. I almost fuckin' lost my lunch." He rubbed drool and come off his lips. "Next time, I'm gonna vomit on your fuckin' shoes." He got up, shaky on his feet, and shoved Sam into the wall. "Move." 

He bent over the sink, washed his hands, cupped water in them to wash the come and snot and spit off his face. He caught Sam's eyes in the mirror, took in that little corkscrew furrow between his brows. He shook his head, grinned. "You’re a fuckin' piece of work, you know that? Shit, that was good, though." Dean's voice was wrecked, raw.

 

Sam's face lit up, and he shoved into Dean from behind. Dropped a kiss on the back of his neck. "You want me to take care of you?" 

Dean snorted. He pulled his t-shirt up, showing Sam the wet spot on the front of his jeans, grinned wryly. "Nah. 'm good." He buttoned his overshirt closed and Sam laughed. 

"Perv. You get off on that stuff hard," he said, but his tone of voice was soft, loving…as always, a little awed that Dean would let him— _wanted_ to let him, do that to him.

Dean just shrugged, patted Sam's chest. "Don’t stop to think about it much, Sammy—I just do what feels good." 

Sam snagged him, reeled him in and opened his mouth over Dean's. It was a sloppy wet kiss, more about laving the puffy redness of Dean's mouth, trying to sooth it. Dean sighed, pulled back and tamed the kiss a bit. They kissed and kissed until someone banged at the door. "Hey! Gotta piss, you mind?"

Sam pulled back and burst into laughter, Dean right along with him. They shouldered through the door and sprinted out to the lot, laughing even harder at their synchronized jump into the car.

Flat land for miles…miles and miles sped away outside the car. The wind beat against his face, thrumming in his pulse and breath. Hot again. Sam wondered why they couldn't find a nice, quiet hunt in a temperate zone. Some quiet, small city with coffee shops and bookstores on every block. A simple salt and burn, followed by a decent tea and a nice, clean, soft bed to lie in…

"Okay, give me the rundown—what's this thing doing, why, and more important, how do we kill it?"

Sam sighed and rubbed his eyes—he nodded, opened the laptop and went to the file on the job. "So…even though almost all the lore describes it as going after _goats,_ which makes it annoying, expensive, but not life-threatening…according to this," Sam frowned, "it looks like it's going after kids. The littlest ones."

Dean cursed and slammed the palm of his hand against the steering wheel. "Fuck—I hate when kids are involved." He chewed at his lip, distracted by his thoughts and inadvertently pulling Sam's attention straight to that plump shine. "I don't know, man, doesn't it seem like that kinda shit's been happening more and more…?" he side-eyed Sam and Sam swallowed, shifted his gaze away and nodded. Dean rolled his eyes and Sam shrugged, grinning sheepishly….

"Yeah, no—dude, I get it—definitely feels like a pattern building up here—" he shrugged again. There wasn't much they could do with odd info that wasn't really info, was more of a hunch really. "Remind me to e-mail Ash, if there's anything to find, he's the one to find it."

 

Five hours later, they were laid out in the sand. There was a fire going and the smell of greasy meat gone off, burning hot and fast. The flames licked up high, and every so often, sparks exploded out of it. They'd put a healthy distance between themselves and the fire, and passed a bottle of water back and forth.

"That motherfucker was not a chupacabra."

"Yes, it was—kinda."

"Hunh." Dean rolled over to his side, and pulled the sleeping bag around him. "Yeah, kinda. That's real technical there, Sammy."

"I made notes and took pictures. I'm going to call other hunters in the area and see if any of them have seen a behavior change in the choops." 

"They're not exactly common, not like we have tons of lore on them."

"Yeah." Sam shoved his notebook and phone in his bag and pushed it behind his head. "Tomorrow, let's get a motel with a shower and—and mostly a shower. That blood's like grease."

"Yeah…burns good though, makes a pretty fire."

Sam watched his brother watching the flames, a vague smile on his face, flames making the spray of freckles across the bridge of his nose look like copper flecks. He shook his head. He was a damn easy soul to please, Sam thought. Dean took his pleasure where he found it and didn't question it much. And speaking of pleasure…Sam cleared his throat and Dean rolled to his back, legs spread, resting his weight on his elbows. He grinned at Sam, waggled an eyebrow at him. 

How could Sam resist?

\+ + +

Sam had his head against the Impala's side pillar, his hair whipping in the wind. Roll and bump as the car sped on, down an open road in some back-country place with no traffic, hadn't been traffic for miles. It was hypnotic, the hum of the tires, the breathy roar of the wind. His cheeks stung from errant hairs whipping and snapping against it. "AC," he muttered and Dean rolled his eyes. Yeah, Sam had his eyes closed, but he swore he could hear it when his brother rolled his damn eyes.

"Yeah, well, when you figure out how we can do that on no money, I'm right behind you."

"So we just need to stay put in one place long enough to hook some fish or something. Come on, Dean." They'd slept in the car the last three days; he could barely remember the last time they ate anything that wasn't made mostly of salt or grease. In fact, the last time they'd eaten—maybe a day past--it was a couple of power bars Dean had lifted at a little convenience store. That day it'd been gas or food, and they needed the gas more. Sam sighed. He was tired of brushing his teeth with baking soda and bottled water on the side of the road. He was pretty sure Dean had used the holy water to brush his teeth. 

They needed money, real money, not the nickel-and-dimes scores. So, of course, his moron of a brother decided Vegas was the perfect place to go. 

Vegas…every year, if possible, they drifted back towards Vegas. Dean loved it—the lights, the booze, the people, the noise—and Sam was okay with it. He had his own reasons for wanting to be back in Vegas.

The first thing they did along the way was find a decent bar, one boasting a pool table and lots of happy-go-lucky people. Between the two of them, they made enough for a room—a room in a decent place, even. Dean claimed he could take what they have left over and triple it, but Sam killed that idea, told Dean he'd have to wait until they bought supplies, and _real_ food, stuff that—while it had to last tossed in the trunk of the car—was _not_ for fuck's sake made of oats and nuts and glue. If he had to eat one more power bar, he was going to cram it sideways down Dean's throat. 

He took a shower, a fucking great shower, and when he came out, Dean was stripped down to only a thread-bare pair of Batman boxers and spread out on the bed. "Fuu-uck, it's _clean,_ Sam. It's not _moving._ And god, the fucking A/C is _stellar._ Come over here." 

Sam considered his options… _food, sex, food, sex…_ before he dropped the towel and stalked over to the bed with a grin, matching the grin on Dean's face. "Atta boy," he said and Sam rolled his eyes—the man was an ass. He knelt on the end of the bed, wiggled Dean's boxers down. 

"So…how do you want me?" Sam said. "Want me in you, want me to ride you…tell me what you want."

Dean groaned, low in his throat. "Man, Sam…" Sam watched Dean's dick fatten, jerk to attention. He palmed his own dick, more than half-hard now that Dean was fully erect. Dean blinked, eyes on Sam's crotch. "I like your dick. It's really…you got a fucking good-looking dick, y'know?"

Sam snorted. "Oh, stop with the dirty talk before you make me come right here. Mr. _"dude, good-looking dick"_ …"

"Shut up—you know you love my sex talk."

"Yeah, yeah—it's embarrassingly stupid, when it's not being horribly awkward."

"Yeah, what was that? Awkward, says the fucker with the smartass mouth who'll be jerking himself off tonight."

"Wha—fuck you." Sam rolled Dean to his back when he tried to roll away, curl up tight out of Sam's reach. Sam slammed him flat against the bed—he leaned over, flashed Dean a grin, and then fucking gagged himself on Dean's dick. Dean jerked like he'd touched a live wire, barked out a surprised sound—and then uttered a loud, long, drawn out moan of toe-curling pleasure. Sam opened wide and let Dean slide his dick in deeper, riding Sam's tongue. Sam swallowed back spit and precome, hanging on to Dean as he jerked and twisted.

"Ah—fuck, that's—that's it, there you go, damn, brother, fucking eat that fat—"

Sam pulled off, a single strand of spit shivering, dangling from his lip to the head of Dean's dick. He swiped it away. "Shut _up,_ for god's sake."

"Aw, c'mon, Saaaaaaam…I can't help it, you're just so fuckin' _fuck,_ hot as fire, c'mon, Sammy, please—" 

Sam smirked, ducked his head and mouthed the tip of Dean's dick just to ramp him up, get him louder and more forceful. He crawled up Dean's body—ignoring his shout of protest—and opened his mouth over Dean's, gave him a slow, twisting kind of kiss, one that made him moan and laugh at the same time. 

"Sam, fuckin' tease…"

Sam smiled against his mouth, sucked Dean's top lip in, nibbled it and pulled, sucked until Dean whined in protest, "hurts—" and pushed him away. Didn't get more than a few inches between them before Dean reeled him right back. 

Dean liked kissing like this, Sam knew—slow and hot, fun and sexy. Dean pushed up against him, rubbing the head of his dick over Sam's flat, cut stomach. His skin was hot and then instantly cooler as precome dried on his skin. Sam gripped Dean's neck, thumb resting in the hollow of his throat. He kissed him, and as he did, pressed his thumb down, carefully, a little bit, a little bit more…super careful because Dean forgot from time to time to watch out for himself, so Sam had to. Dean insisted, each time, that he liked it rough and frantic and crazy—but sometimes when Sam was lucky enough to catch him in the right mood, he could give his brother what he really wanted, deep down, make it slow and erotic…bring Dean right to the edge of begging, not demanding Sam fuck him hard, fill him up, but begging so sweetly it made Sam feel…he kissed Dean and his heart broke with it. Sex was crazy good—but so much more when Dean let him make love to him.

The room smelled faintly of Clorox, the sheets were just a wee bit too crisp. The carpet had all the spring and softness of a Brillo pad. But Dean was right, it was _clean,_ and the sheets were free of mystery stains, and the blankets weren't unraveling at the edges. The TV was new, the room fridge worked—hell, there _was_ a room fridge.

Sam was spread out on the king-size bed, head cradled by a couple of pillows the size of postage stamps. Weird…but so soft and puffy that they made up for their tininess. He was wearing his boxers and a pair of socks—socks because A/C always made his feet colder than the rest of him. He clicked through a dozen or so boring stations before settling on a documentary about the life of Leonardo Da Vinci. He flexed his toes, shifted deeper into the fluffy bedding, and thought about Dean, wondered what he was up to…Vegas, man, Dean was really in his element in this town. He quirked a little smile, emptied the beer he'd been nursing and brushed cracker crumbs off his chest. Decadent, this—eating in bed, all but naked at noon and not bleeding—hell, all he needed was Dean bent over a couple of these tiny pillows for it to be pretty much perfect. He was just sliding his hand into his boxers when the door handle rattled, the door flew open and there Dean was, in all his loud-ass, boner-killing glory. 

"Dude. You were getting' ready to—" Dean made a not-so-subtle jerking motion with one hand, big goofy grin making his eyes squint, "—without me?"

"No!"

"Yes-hah, I know that look, boy." Dean grinned, waving his hand in front of his own face. He finally shut the door, cutting of the wave of hot air and the stink of asphalt and motor oil, and incidentally, saving Sam from being ogled by stray passer-bys in the motel parking lot. "Don't let me stop you, dude."

"Shit, you busting in the room like Elliot Ness pretty much killed that notion."

Dean just grinned wider, kicked off his boots, yanked off his jeans, and flung himself onto the bed with Sam. "So," he said, and yanked a fat roll of bills out of his shirt pocket. He fanned them out on Sam's bare chest, Ignoring Sam's mumbled, _dude, stop._

Sam snagged the bills and flicked through them. "Damn, not bad—this should take care of the room for a couple of days—room service and minibar. Oh, yeah—killed the beer already." He grinned as Dean narrowed his eyes. 

"What! Freakin' selfish, that's what you are. _Anyway,_ yeah, I made money—enough to give my girl a thorough going-over, too. Almost enough to fix the A/C…ah, and I could make enough money do that, too…if…I, uh, I kinda got offered an opportunity."

"Opportunity? Like what…?" Sam took in Dean's expression, the guilt, defiance and apology warring on his face, and his gut froze. _God damn it…._

"Dean." Sam sat up, folded his arms over his chest. "Dude, we're in Vegas! Gamble, play pool—shit, pick some fat pockets—I don't want to hear about any goddamn 'opportunities'. Not now, not _ever."_

"I could make more money in one night than we'd make in a couple of nights playing pool, or risking the tables…Sam… _we_ can make more money than I can make on my own, just this once—ow, fuck, Sam! Sam, damn it!"

"Fuckin' pimpin' me out, you asshole? Bastard!" Sam punched Dean in his chest again, hard enough to knock him flat. He jumped off the bed so fast he staggered when he landed, and shut himself in the bathroom. He locked the door and slid to the floor. He dropped his head against the door with a thump. It was quiet in the other room, which said a lot. Dean knew he'd fucked up like…fuck. 

Asshole. They'd had this conversation before…Sam groaned. Okay, so no, they hadn't specifically talked about it, but Sam had always figured it was _inferred,_ that it was something that wouldn't happen anymore, after he came back on the road with Dean. 

When they were kids neither of them had had much of a problem with taking care of business in any way they'd had to, and when it came to hooking…well. It was what it was. Still, hooking had always been an absolute last resort; the place they went to only when they'd decided there was no other choice to make. He'd hated any time he'd done it. Dean, on the other hand…he'd seemed not to care. Like it was something that just didn't touch him. Sam hadn't done it much after eighteen—too much to risk, and then there'd been Jess, and that made everything different…Dean hadn't done it either much after he hit his twenties. Time passed, they got older, and it got harder to hide how fucking _scary_ they were.

 

He thumped the door again. Dean…such an asshole. Fuck…but he wouldn't have come to him with this unless it was a boatload of money. One night…a couple of hours. He'd survive it. If Dean wanted to sit out the job for a bit, Sam decided he could do it. They were tired…they both needed a _real_ break, a couple of weeks, so why not? They had nobody to answer to except each other, after all. Not anymore.

He sighed, scrubbed at his face and opened the door. 

Dean was sitting on the bed, ripping at his cuticles with worry. He jumped, looked up at Sam with an expression of part guilt, part defiance. Sam shook his head, walked across the room towards his moronic brother. He sat next to Dean with a small sigh, leaned his elbows on his knees. "I honestly don't know why I'm even saying this, swear to god, I don't, but. Tell me about it." 

 

"Never mind. It was stupid. We'll leave. Smaller towns, we can hustle up cash your way. Like I said, we got enough to get by for a while. Promise."

"Dean. Fucking tell me."

He dragged the words out, low, reluctant. "There's a guy…he'll pay a lot to see us, you know, fuck. To join in, maybe. _Big_ maybe." Dean got up from the bed and stood between Sam's spread knees. Sam tilted his head back and Dean brushed his nose along Sam's cheek, murmured, "I'm sorry," and pressed a soft, dry kiss on his mouth. "Fuck, I'm _so sorry,_ baby. I'm a fuckin' asshole. C'mon, pack up—we'll skip out tonight."

Sam shook his head. "Call the guy. We'll do it."


	2. Chapter 2

Dean called the guy—although now, being stone-cold sober and not flying from the absolute thrill of skinning a bunch of gullible marks, it seemed like a really horrible idea. They'd been raised on the "you do what you have to, to get by" principle. 'Course, Dad probably hadn't imagined his sons selling their asses or getting involved in some kind of creepy, three-way with some asshole…fuck. He kind of wished Sam had really called him on his bullshit, laid him out cold and thrown his ass in the car with a solid _HELL NO._ But Sam, with his giant brain, added it up and decided that slimy or not, it was a go. It'd be good not to have to hustle or scam for a while. At least that aspect of it was damn appealing. 

 

Dean eased Baby under the portico of a hotel that had Sam rolling his eyes and muttering about tasteless excess and the horrible waste of money. Dean thought it was kind of cool, all columns and arches, palm trees and marble fountains spewing colored water. 

Sam glanced out the passenger side window. "Looks like bad news is bearing down on us, Dean."

"I got it."

Bad News leaned into Dean's side of the car; the brass buttons on his stiff grey uniform slid across the glass, and Dean rolled the window down fast as he could. 

"Hey, howyadoin? Listen, Mr. Humbolt is expecting us," he said and flicked a card into view before palming it again. Bad News stared them both up and down and sneered…but ran his fingers respectfully along Baby's flank. So maybe Bad News was a snide dick who thought he had it all figured out, but at least he recognized excellence when he saw it.

They were sent around the block and into an alley, and from there to a rear door. They were led to a service elevator they could have lived in, it was that big. Dean supposed the whole bullshit run was meant to be humiliating, as well as a cover for Humbolt's…hobbies. If he was supposed to be embarrassed or something, then Humbolt or whatever his real name was, was about to be real disappointed. Dean thought this shit was funny; he didn't feel any kind of way about it except he was gonna get paid big time, and shit, he wasn't even all that opposed to having an audience. Dean stared at their fun-house images in the stainless steel walls and snorted.

"What?" Sam frowned, kind of looming in the corner and still looking like someone pissed in his bunk.

"Nothing. It's just…this." He shrugged, afraid to point out the absurdity of the situation because Sam was obviously still a little…okay, _a lot_ …pissed, and he just might decide now was the perfect time to slam Dean's head into the walls a few times. 

Sam surprised Dean by smiling—small and grudging, but definitely a smile. "Yeah. Asshat must think he's James Bond or something."

Dean turned his back on Sam and smiled to himself. Of course Sam knew what he was thinking. 

The elevator pinged genteelly and the doors whooshed open on a room with glass tiled walls and ankle-deep blue carpet. They walked across the narrow area to a set of dark, almost black, wood doors that opened as soon they stepped on the carpet. "Weight sensors," Sam whispered. 

Dean threw Sam a look, mouthed, _'the fuck?'_ Weight sensors—who gave a shit, they weren't scoping the place out for a break-in. Dean just wanted to do this thing, grab their dough, and get the fuck out. 

The asshole standing in the doorway gulping like a fish hadn't gotten any more attractive now that it was daytime and Dean was sober. He was shortish, kinda bland, like…like a nebbishy, perverted Rick Moranis. He greeted them at the door, his eyes traveling up and up and up, before shuddering and inviting them in, the way you'd invite vampires in, Dean thought; he snorted softly as they crossed his threshold. The guy gripped the door and sighed like he'd just been given a triple scoop sundae with extra whipped cream and cherries.

"Okay," Dean said, hands crammed deep in the pockets of his leather, one curled tight around a roll of quarters, because he never took anything for granted. “This is how it's going to go. He's going to fuck me, and you're gonna have the pleasure of watching for two large." Sam pressed into his back and Dean didn't have to see him to know he was glowering over his shoulder, not with the way the Nebbish was blinking like he was having a seizure. Dean jerked an elbow back into Sam's ribs. 

"Hey, you understand me?" he asked Nebbish again. The guy hadn’t reacted at all to the amount Dean spit, and Dean felt a flash of annoyance—first that the guy acted like giving up a couple of Ks on the spot was like pulling change out of the couch cushions, and second, he should have asked for more, damn it. 

Nebbish swiveled between Sam and Dean, eyes blinking frantically before he managed to gasp out, “And I'm touching too—that was the deal, right?"

Dean grinned and the guy flinched. “Another K, yeah you can. And I say how and when." Sam started to protest, but Dean reached behind himself and pushed Sam back. "Be quiet," he ordered.

Nebbish swallowed so hard he looked like he was trying to gulp down a golf ball. He stared into the distance, lips moving…probably figuring if it was worth that much or not. He jerked around to look at Dean again, a little green around the edges, but agreeing to the new terms. "Okay…but…you gotta act like you're…brothers," he croaked and winced.

 _"What?_ Sam said, overlapped by Dean's shocked, _"Hunh?"_

"Th—that's what I—I want," the guy stuttered. "Take it or—or leave it."

Dean looked at Sam, Sam glared at Dean, obviously trying to maim Dean with his eyes. Dean bit down on his lip, and Sam bitch-faced harder. "Sure," Dean said, "we'll act like we're brothers…"

"Hey! I'm _paying_ you!" 

"Yeah…that doesn't make you any less a freak. Let's get started." Dean dropped his jacket and kicked his boots off, Sam following him, but slower than Dean, concentrating on buttons and zippers like there might be a test. 

Shirtless, barefoot, Dean strolled over to the bed, Nebbish trailing after like a horny sheep, red-faced and obviously hard, and breathing like he was about to stroke out. He almost fainted when Dean pulled a gun out of the back of his jeans, popped the clip and set both it and the gun on the nightstand. Dean startled a little when the guy gasped, whined…humped the air like it was show-over. "Jesus," he muttered and Sam echoed him. He was at Dean's side, buck naked and rolling his eyes. 

"C'mon, dude, I don’t wanna be here all night," Sam said and Dean laughed.

"Smooth talker, gettin' me all hot." He shoved Sam and Sam shoved him back and for a few seconds, they fake slap-fought, snickering until Nebbish got upset. 

"Come on, fellas, you're into it, aren't you?" he whined.

"Fuck yeah," Dean said, and dropped his pants and boxers. "I'm into it—how 'bout you, _brother,_ you into it?"

"Shut up—better yet, get on my dick— _little brother."_ Dean started to protest, but clammed up at the look on Sam's face—a combination of _say something, I dare you_ and _just fucking roll with it._

“Oh fuck, yeah, that's it, shit…." Nebbish moaned, had his pants pushed to his thighs, fucking his own fist and moaning over and over, ‘brother, yeah.’ Dean grimaced, nauseated, and then felt like a fool—it was pretty much what he'd signed him and Sam up for.

Sam pulled Dean down on top of him, growling into his ear, "After this, I'm gonna kick your ass in the service elevator." He was a little less perturbed once Dean flipped him over, spread his cheeks and ate him out, purposely making the most noise he could. Nebbish crept onto the bed, begging Sam to please let him touch, so Sam got to his knees and pointed Nebbish towards his dick—it was that or knock him unconscious. 

Dean leaned back from Sam, peering around his hip at Nebbish losing his shit. "What's up? You wanna switch?"

"Are you kidding? I don’t want him touching you," Sam snarled. "I'll do it…you fuck me."

Dean agreed—he figured that'd be the extent of the dude touching anyone, and Sam could always disinfect his dick later.

Sam promised himself again that he was going to kick Dean's ass, he was going to beat the stupid right out of him…later, god, later, after he stopped doing—"Oh, god, oh god, that's—that's—good."

Sam squeezed his eyes tightly shut and groaned at the dual sensations of Dean's mouth on his ass and the asshole guy's mouth on his dick. "Fuck, little brother, eat me, fuck, best damn brother in the world—" and yelped as Dean laughed right in his ass. "You gotta stop doing that," Sam groaned. Dean's tongue rubbed flat across his hole, then prodded at him, trying to get inside. Sam loved the way it felt, the rasp of Dean's tongue against him, the slight burn as his stubble rubbed against the sensitive skin of his cheeks…it felt like liquid fire when Dean's tongue pushed inside, thrusting slow and sloppy wet inside him. The asshole guy was doing his best as well, going at it like he was the one getting paid instead. Dean sucked hard, Sam groaned and jerked—his dick went right down the guy's throat. The vibration around his dick made Sam pump his hips, and then he was fucking the guy's mouth unconcerned for his comfort—just concentrating on Dean, and yelling whatever came out of his mouth. "Eat me, brother, fuck, yeah, fuck me brother, brother, my brother—beautiful, fucking hot, amazing, fucking brother—"

The freaky asshole guy under him practically screamed around Sam's dick and came, some spooge hitting Sam's thigh. Sam restrained himself from shoving the asshole off the bed—he pulled away and scrubbed his thigh off with an edge of the sheet, scowling.

Dean shoved up to the top of the bed, and waved Sam closer, commanding asshole not to move. Sam scooted up and straddled Dean's legs, facing Dean. "Told you I was going to ride you," he said.

"Yeah, but Nebbish—"

"Who? Oh—fuck _him."_

Dean smirked and slipped fingers up his ass, stretching a bit, trying to hit Sam's sweet spot, and doing pretty good. Between Dean's hand on his dick and fingers in his ass, it only took a couple of strokes before Sam came all over Dean's stomach. Dean jumped the gun, shoved his dick into Sam in one fucking go. It was uncomfortable for a couple of seconds, like really uncomfortable, and then it got good, the ring of muscle clamping down on Dean's dick increasing the pleasure of it. Dean surged into him and rubbed right over his prostate, and even though he'd come already, his body vibrated with the way it felt. He shuddered and moaned one last time, _brother._ He heard Dean hiss, and groan, "Brother, yeah—" before coming himself. 

Sam eased himself off Dean and collapsed to the bed, wrung out, and not necessarily in a good way. Three large for an hour's work. Sam felt hot breath on the back of his leg, leaned over and pushed the little freak guy away. "Get off. Where's the bathroom?"

"Through there…" He gulped as Sam turned around and yanked Dean close, gave him a big, open-mouthed kiss, licking inside his mouth and over his lips, practically licking his cheeks and chin. He let go and Dean blinked, a little dizzy with the aftermath of orgasm combined with a kiss as hot as Sam could make it.

By the time he came out of bathroom, Dean had gathered up Sam's clothes and his own and had them spread on the bed, ready to go. Asshole Guy was crouched on one of the overstuffed chairs in the suite, looking like a terrified owl. He kept glancing towards the Colt on the nightstand. Sam sneered at the guy just to see him jump, and tossed Dean a washcloth, still steaming from the hot water he'd wet it in. The guy made a noise and Sam leveled a glare at him. 

"Get your own," Sam snapped and the guy squeaked, dashed for the bathroom. 

 

They were dressed, the washcloth they'd used lying on the sheet, soaking the wet spot wider when asshole shuffled out of the bathroom. Dean was just loading the clip into his Colt again, and tucked the gun in his waistband with a grin at the guy. "So, my brother and me had a nice visit. How 'bout you?"

The guy nodded his head so hard Sam wondered if his head was going to fly off. "Okay then," and Dean patted his lower back in a way he probably thought was subtle, "where's the money?"

Asshole lifted his chin, and actually looked defiant—despite the way his chin wobbled like jello. "Fine, but no way was that three thousand worth because it was only a blow job and I didn't get to touch you, just the other guy and, and last night we agreed—"

Sam couldn't believe the guy was trying to negotiate a discount and Dean stared at him like he'd suddenly started vomiting glitter. "Did you fucking miss the part where I'm _armed?"_

"No, no, I'll pay you, just. Three seems like a lot for—"

Sam loomed over the guy. "Are you serious? Were you listening, dude?"

"I'm—hah, just playing here, let me write you a che—I mean, get my wallet—uh, hand you the money," he amended at the look on Dean's face. "It's right here, here in the nightstand drawer…."

"Thanks, guy," Dean grabbed the money, "and word of advice—someday your bad boy fantasies are going to get you killed." He turned to Sam. "Small loss, that would be. I'm gonna get the car."

"Be right with you." Sam leaned against the wall, his eyes locked on the oily little bastard right now shaking in the overstuffed chair he'd had facing the bed. The door clicked shut and Sam uncoiled, fury burning through him. He bent over the chair, grabbing the armrests and trapping the guy. "You pathetic little shit. Did you honestly believe you could stiff us?"

The guy froze in his seat, stared up at Sam open-mouthed, his eyes wide and watery. Sam bit the words off, his eyes never leaving Asshole's face. "You don’t even know what you're looking for—you don’t even get that you're looking for it. You'll go all around the world, you'll do this—this pathetic shit over and over and. Never. Get. It. Because you don’t even know what you saw."

Sam jerked upright and the guy jumped, squeaked and shoved himself against the chair back. "You looked at my brother—" he ignored the guy's gasp—"and all you saw was how beautiful he is." Sam glared at the little shit. "He is. He's fucking unbelievably beautiful. But you didn't see—" Sam stopped, his throat jerking over and over as he swallowed, tried to swallow down the emotions ripping through him like fire. "You can't see what makes him that way. What he's done, for me…for assholes like you…" 

His phone burst into song and he looked down. Dean. He swung on his heel and headed for the door. Behind him the guy called out, "Wait—wait—was that. He's really your brother—?"

 

Halfway out of town, Sam turned to Dean. "Never, never, ever again."

"Sam, what, it wasn't even a thing—"

It wasn't the fact that they were driving that kept Sam from swinging on Dean at that moment—it was the fear he wouldn’t stop after one punch. "I'm not fucking kidding. I swear, Dean, not fucking even a little bit."

  


The poltergeist was a snap. It was new and hadn't built up a store of energy.

The ghost was a little harder, but not really rough. They made it through with a minimum of pain, a simple salt'n'burn. 

There was a Black Dog haunting a small town, and that was a tricky one, but they managed with some help from a fellow hunter, an old friend.

All in all, it was a busy few months. Sam dragged himself through day after day, feeling like he was submerged, only half-breathing. Life felt like it was taking place in a dream, a not very good one at that. He and Dean worked great together, one seamless entity, powerful and deadly. But after a hunt, they were awkward, stiff with each other—they couldn't move comfortably around each other, conversation flapped and died like a broken bird. It was staring at each other from the corners of their eyes, and mouths opening, closing, opening…silence. It felt bad. It felt wrong. 

 

_hey remember the first time? The time you scarred me for life?  
You keep saying it like that—it wasn't like that. I didn't do anything wrong. Bad. _

_You scared me. I thought it was my fault._

_It wasn't a thing that had a fault. I was in love. I wanted to…I had to._

_I know, I'm kidding. You're right. It wasn't like that_

 

 _In 1996, Sam Winchester crawled up on his brother's bed, fell on his mouth, knocked his painfully bony hips against Dean's, sliding on sweat-damp skin, and came violently against his thigh._

Sudden heat and slippery wet registered on Dean at the same moment that he sputtered blood all over his chin, and his mouth felt like he'd lipped a hot coal. 

He gawped up at the ceiling, head spinning _—what the fuck?—_ it suddenly registered that Sam was crying and shaking at his side, his head shoved into the space between Dean's neck and shoulder, so sure, his arms went around Sam automatically, 'course they did. Something was upsetting his kid, and he had to protect him. 

It was when Sam slid in the spunk gumming up on Dean's hip that he realized the kid was naked and borderline hysterical. So, turned out _he_ was the thing that was upsetting his little brother. 

_Guilt flared then, the way it flared for years and years afterward. Even now, so many years later, he'd get a flicker of that guilt, couldn't help feeling, still, that he must have done something, said something, to make Sam feel like that._

Dean sat a rickety motel table. Sam was on one of the beds, probably thinking that Dean was fucking up his laptop, surfing porn, but he wasn't. He was thinking of Vegas, the Vegas long past, not the stupid Vegas just past. Thinking, more precisely, about incest.

He thought about the way he's always managed to shoot his own self in the foot. He'd always been skilled at torpedoing his own good things.

He thought about Sam and himself, the way they were—are. He'd met other kids who'd had lives like theirs; raised more or less in isolation, hunters' kids…certainly none of them had felt motivated to fuck each other. In fact, wasn't there some kind of syndrome, rule, biological drive to keep that from happening? He looked it up and there it was. 

_The Westermarck effect._ Wikipedia said, basically, it meant that people raised together tended not to want to fuck each other. 

He mentioned it to Sam, who just gave him a massive bitchface. 

"Yeah well, you're a fucking siren, Dean. I couldn't help myself, never had a chance. You just sucked me into your vortex of sexuality—" He stopped. "Dean? Hey—hey, I'm just kidding, you know that, right?"

"No, it's nothing. I…just, y'know, need to, ah, stretch some. I'mma take a walk. Research, man. S'gonna make my head explode." He grabbed his jacket, slid on his boots. He walked past Sam and Sam held his hand out. Dean took it, squeezed, just a little and gently, carefully set Sam's hand back down on the notes piled in his lap . He bent and pressed a kiss on Sam's mouth. Pressed a kiss to Sam's cheek, a dry little peck, and then one at his hairline, smelling Sam, breathing him in. "Be right back," he said and quickly left the room.

 

It wasn't long before Sam followed him out, joining him on his perch on the Impala's hood. They sat quietly a bit before Sam said, eyes locked on some distant point, "Remember Vegas? I mean, not that shit that just happened, I mean the first time."

Dean smiled, kept his own eyes straight ahead. He said, "Sure. First time…that job Dad did for his buddy, the one that ran the hotel…set me and you up in that suite while Dad worked."

"Dad left us there, can you believe it? In that hotel room all by ourselves, with a minibar no one checked, free room service—"

"And that giant fucking tub," Dean laughed and Sam scooted closer. Dean didn’t move, let Sam's elbow knock against his. "You were fourteen…"

"One month from fifteen! Don’t say 'too young', Dean. It was…didn't you think it was perfect back then?"

"I was—" Dean stopped. He was going to say stupid, but Sam was looking at him, his mouth all soft and pained, his eyes full of _please,_ and _don’t_ so he said, "I was in love." 

Sam almost melted into his side, his eyes went dark, and he breathed into Dean's shoulder, "God. Me too. Me too. I remember…I thought it was going to be forever."

Dean looked down, nodded, because he sure understood that, considering what all happened along the way. They'd been so _young_ and had no idea back then how the world worked so they made up rules as they went along because they didn't know what the rules were. And then one day, it was all over and the world collapsed inward, shrunk into nothing. Sam shook and wound his fingers into Dean's sleeve, tugged a little. Dean splayed his hand over the sun-warmed hood, let Baby ground him. It was okay now, but it still…it still hurt, just a little, remembering it all.

"You know I was just trying to find myself, not lose you guys. Never that. But Dad said what he said, and you didn’t say much and I knew, right then and there, that it had all been _me._ And that all along, you'd just been…" Sam shrugged. "Horny." 

He had Sam now, every day, he had him all to himself, and he knew Sam _loved_ him, he knew it. But Sam saying that was like being stabbed all over again. It had hurt like fuck that night, it'd hurt like losing an arm. It _killed_ him, that Sam had looked at him, seen his eyes, and thought he was just miffed over losing a fuckbuddy. 

Sam grabbed Dean's sleeve tighter, yanked until Dean was looking in his eyes. "That was me back then, okay? _Long_ time ago." He slowly drew his hand away, took Dean's hand, flipped it and linked their fingers. Dean let the feeling settle him, Sam's long, lean, _warm_ fingers locked with his.

"So yeah, Dean, I met a girl—but so did you. And we both thought, _'This is it. This is the end of being a freak. This is normal and love.'_ And we were both…well, we were wrong."

Dean shook his head. "No, _I_ was wrong. I fucked up—you had her _torn_ away. You had all your possibilities stolen." 

"No, Dean." Sam shook his head. "I know better now. I did love her, and she made me happy and we could have been happy together—maybe. But I never _loved_ her, loved her. And somewhere down the line, I would have realized it, and then…" He looked at Dean, like he was trying to look into his soul, and Dean blinked, pushing back, but Sam wouldn’t let up. Grip like a monkey, his kid. "I would have come for you."

Dean smiled wide, right into the face of all that seriousness. "Dude, _I_ would have come for you, eventually. Just like I did—" Dean stopped; paled with a wave of guilt so deep it made him nauseous. "But…I wish…I wish I'd waited."

"It wasn't…it was not your fault. If it was anyone's fault, it was _mine,_ for not believing that we drag what we do along with us, like fucking…like a damn disease. We're _bad_ for other people, man. We're dangerous."

Dean nodded. "Yeah…but…good for each other, right?"

"Silver-lining in this whole fucked-up thing?" Sam rolled his eyes, knowing it would make Dean laugh as he did it. 

"Shut up dude," Dean said. "I'm a master cock-sucker. You should count yourself lucky."

Sam snorted, fought to keep a smile off his face but finally gave in. "A master, hunh?" 

"World class," Dean nodded. "Let's go back inside, and I'll show you." 

"That sounds like an excellent plan."

+++

A comfortable peace between them, they set out on the road to Bobby's. The hum of tires on asphalt thrummed through Sam like an endless song, their song. Hot air roared through the windows—it would follow them all the way to South Dakota. In South Dakota, car parts would be waiting for them, an a/c unit. They'd breathe a little, recharge, maybe not fuck, but that didn’t matter. The house was full of memories, mostly good, the yard was full of cars, and it'd be fun for Dean, Sam thought, to relive a few more days gone past. Not that Sam minded the idea of getting stuck to the vinyl-covered backseat of a cleaned out junker himself….

_In 1998, John Winchester left his boys in a hotel room in Vegas for three days…._

_It was warm. But not sweat-puddle warm. The A/C gently, almost silently, cooled the air. Sun peeked around the edge of cream colored drapes, made the golden carpet glow. It was like being in a magic place—safe, clean, food whenever they wanted it, cold drinks and thick mattresses that smelled like nothing at all._

Sam was crouched on the edge of the little couch sat in front of a huge flat-faced TV, like, you could see the TV from almost any angle in the room, so cool. Sam had his legs drawn up, his skinny body looking like a praying mantis' as he studied the TV's channel guide like there'd be a test on it later. 

He looked up at Dean with a grin, wide and deep enough to showcase his dimples. "D, there's just choices on choices, we can watch anything!"

Dean grinned back, enjoying the way Sammy looked: clean, relaxed, well fed, kinda happy, really. Sometimes being a hunter actually paid off. Okay, like, really hardly ever, and mostly in free sandwiches or coupons for fast-food places, but every once in a rare while—Bingo. Yahtzee. Publisher's Clearing House style. "So find something good for us, and I'll order food—pizza?"

Sam scrunched his nose up, and Dean sighed—out loud. Inside, he snickered. Sam was the only kid in the world who'd choose green beans over hotdogs.

They ended up ordering Sam a big salad with shaved cheese, stale cubes of bread, and chicken pieces in it, which proved without a doubt that Sam was some kinda weird nerd. _He_ had real food—a burger that was the size of a hubcap, covered with thick, melted slices of cheese that worked great with the lettuce and onions and tomato slices on it. He told Sam it was a salad, or close enough and Sam called him an idiot. Maybe, but he was an idiot with a great burger— _and_ pie. 

It was good. They sprawled across the huge bed, swamped by thick covers and pillows that didn’t collapse into flat smelly rectangles the minute they touched them. The sheets were soft enough that they felt sinfully good on bare skin—they dumped everything but boxers and burrowed in. Dean loved it, almost too much. He couldn't help thinking that after this, it'd be another forty dollar a night hooker's motel again, or squatting in some barely livable dump, eating ramen and canned beans…..

Sam wanted a bath because they hardly ever stayed anywhere there was a tub, or a tub clean enough to trust their asses with. The bathroom was crazy—huge and blindingly bright. The tub was as deep as a swimming pool, with all these crazy jets in it _and_ showerheads and a sloped back. 

Dean ran the water for Sam and dumped a crapload of bubble stuff in it just because, while Sam sat on the side of the tub, wrapped in a fluffy white robe they'd found hanging on hooks in the room, legs crossed and cheesing like he was…Elizabeth Taylor or something. He actually giggled when Dean flicked bubbles at him, and pouted when Dean asked if he wanted a towel to keep his luxurious locks out of the way. 

"D, my hair's not even that long—just compared to your jarhead cut—"

"Dude, don’t let Dad catch you sayin' that."

Sam dropped his robe and Dean tried not to look, but his eyes slid back to him anyway. Sam was taller than Dean thought of him as being, and slim, with what little baby fat he still had taking some of the angles off…but not for much longer. Dean could tell he was going to shoot up again, and that sweet, sleek look was going to become bone and muscle, sharp and angular. Sam's round cheeks creased with a closed-mouth smile, digging dimples deep as he stepped into the tub, and Dean dropped his eyes. He couldn't ogle his brother's junk. That was sick…though Sam was kinda big for his age, damn. Dean wiped a hand over his face. Time to hit the minibar again. 

Sam sank neck deep in warm water and bubbles, and before Dean could slide off the edge and out of the room, his fingertips snagged a leg of Dean's boxers. "Stay a little bit, please."

There was a look in his little brother's eyes he remembered, a night he'd tried to forget, tried to explain away, but this…Sam's water-warmed fingers brushed Dean's skin. "Please, Dean," he said.

Dean shuddered and hoped Sam didn't notice. He took a deep breath and forced a cocky smile. "Sure. Just…wait a minute."

He came back with his pie and Sam's lame dessert, a bowl of berries—bumpy red ones, little blueberries, strawberries and not even any cream—definitely nerd dessert. He set it on the wide ledge of the tub. "So, this is what rich people do, right, eat in the tub?"

Sam nodded. "And have champagne and candles. Do we have any candles we can use?"

"What?" Dean cracked up. "Sam, you need to stop watching soap operas, dude."

"Oh shut up, Mr. Telenovela. Gimme a strawberry." He held out his hand, bubbles slipping off the edge of his palm. 

"Nah, let me," Dean said, and without even thinking, he pushed a strawberry against Sam's mouth.

That was probably not the best idea he'd ever had. 

Or maybe it _was_ the best idea he'd ever had. Sam looked surprised at first, but his eyes narrowed; the blue-green-gold went a dark brown—he opened his mouth and Dean found himself with the strawberry and his fingertips pressed against Sam's lips. Sam bit down and Dean felt the berry burst…he pushed it in further, letting Sam eat it from his fingers until he was licking his lips and Dean's fingertips, too. Another berry, and now Sam's lips were pursed tight around Dean's fingers, sucking hard as the tip of his tongue searched out the juice trapped on Dean's skin. His eyes were slits now, dark and hidden by the thick lashes shadowing his cheekbones, gone red as his lips.

Sam's tongue flicked between his fingers, and Dean flinched at the soft, wet movement. He was hard as a rock—obviously so. Sam's eyes opened slowly, fixed on Dean's crotch. He sucked a sharp tug on Dean's fingers and brushed his hand over the twitching bulge in Dean's boxers, pressed his thumb against the spreading wet blotch.

Dean jerked and cursed, slamming his hand over Sam's— _Going to *hell,*_ he thought, and tossed all sense of right and wrong to the wind, ground up against his brother's hold. The bowl tipped off the edge of the tub and berries dropped and rolled everywhere. The bowl spun away across the tiles, the clang-whir of metal skittering against tile suddenly the only sound in the steaming bathroom. Sam slid his hand downwards, pulling fabric across the sensitive head of Dean's dick and Dean swept his perfect slice of pie onto the tiles as well. "Damn—" he started but lost it when Sam wrapped his hand as well as he could around Dean's dick and pulled. 

"Get in with me, get in—"

"Dude! Not a handle," Dean yelped, and Sam broke into way-too amused cackling. Dean scowled, dropped his boxers, climbed in the tub—and froze. Shock hit him like a punch. He was in the tub. _Naked._ With a naked _Sam,_ who looked altogether too pleased, but under that—terrified. 

Dean wanted to jump out again but Sam had his wrist in a grip like an anaconda, his long fingers wrapped so tightly that Dean could feel the blood pulse in his fingertips. "Okay, Sammy, okay, I'm…good. Staying. So. Let go, 'kay?"

Sam gulped and nodded, his lower lip rolling into his mouth, his eyes gone wide and clear as they locked on Dean's. He shifted, and Dean looked down; the head of Sam's dick broke the water, standing dark and wet, thick and gleaming—so pretty and just _there._

"What the hell," he moaned, and bent over to take the head in his mouth. 

Water swooped and splashed against the sides of the tub, slopping over onto the floor. Sam's arms windmilled before slamming down on Dean's shoulders. His hands slid around on Dean's water-slicked skin before he dug in with his nails and jerked his hips right up out of the water. He yelled and came, filling Dean's mouth before he could spit Sam's dick out. Sam's come was thick, hot, and a little slimy, but Dean found himself strangely okay with it. He just gulped and swallowed, tried not to smirk when Sam shouted again at the sensation. His dick gave a weak pulse or two, before Dean almost lost him altogether under the water. 

"Whoa, whoa, Sam!" He shoved his hands under Sam's armpits and pulled him higher in the tub, smothering a freaked-out giggle at Sam's goofy grin. 

Sam blinked a few times and moaned, "…that was….oh my god, Dean, D, god…"

"Yeah, c'mon, Sam, let's get you out the tub." Dean pulled Sam out of the tub, walking him carefully around the berries scattered across the floor, reminding himself to pick them up later... 

"M'dessert…" Sam muttered, and made pawing motions in the general direction of the floor.

"Uh," Dean said, "yeah, yeah—let's get your heavy ass in bed first."

Sam giggled and landed on the bed with a whistled, "Wooph" when Dean dropped him. Dean lowered himself down next to Sam, who looked at him with such a soft expression of fondness that it melted his insides. "Dean…" he started, but stopped, biting his lip to silence himself; for a moment it worked, but then he went on to say, "Thank you. You know, D, right? You know, don’t you?" and it sounded like he was halfway asleep.

"Sammy," Dean said, carding his fingers through Sam's hair, cupping the back of his head. "Sammy…." Dean turned towards him, knees up under Sam's, pulling him closer. "'Course I do. Love ya, Sammy."

Sam shuddered from head to toe. He was floating, skimming on a sea of warmth inside of him, Dean's hands on his body, Dean's breath in his lungs. He leaned closer, begging, "Dean, together, let's…I don’t want to be the only one who gets to come. You too." His cheeks and the tips of his ears burning, probably bright red. Because it was hard to say it, even though he meant it—he wanted Dean to feel that good too.

Dean frowned, moved back a little, and Sam hated the cool air that rushed in between them. 

"Sammy…look, I get this is stupid, but…as long as it's just you, I don't feel like it's…so terribly wrong, you know? Not as wrong as, as…shit, I don't know. I'm scared," he admitted, and Sam could see how true that was, could feel Dean's hand shaking as it stroked through his hair. 

"Dean, can't you let me do this, _please?_ We don’t have to…I could blow you too?"

"Fu-uck," Dean moaned, and his hands slid down his still naked body. Dean was cupping himself, squeezing slightly—Sam covered Dean's hand with his and now they were back where they'd been in the tub, only now _Dean_ was shaking, his hand clenching under Sam's. "Whatever you want, Sam. Whatever."

Sam opened his knees, crawled over Dean's hip so that he was straddling him. Dean jerked upwards, his dick slapping Sam's thigh, dragging a moan out of both of them. 

"No—" Dean was shaking his head, trying to push Sam off. "I can't do that—can't fuck you."

"No, no, I know—" Sam hurried to say,"—just . . . just this." He wrapped his long fingers around himself, around Dean, gathering them together. 

Dean quivered, moaned, "Jeez, Sammy—hands're so big, when did that—that happen? God—"

The silky smooth slide of his skin against Dean's made them both grunt, jerk in Sam's hold. "Just like th—this, okay? Not so bad, ri-right?" Sam stuttered with how damn _good_ it felt. 

Sam watched them, watched the crown of his dick roll against Dean's, watched precome bubble up out of both their slits, watched Dean's gape open and close like a tiny mouth, all dark and pink and wet on the inside, precome steadily drooling over his fingers, collecting in the web of his thumb. He squeezed a little, just to watch more pour out and Dean gave a hoarse scream, fucking up against Sam's hold, making a wonderful friction, rubbing and sliding and bumping…Sam's asshole clenched with a blistering bolt of lust when Dean gripped his ass to encourage him to move…it was just the barest nudge of one of his fingers against him, just the very tip sliding in—a slight little sting—but it sent a jolt through Sam that had him doubling over, yelling, "Oh, fuck, fuck—"

He'd been teetering on the edge, so good, and that barely-there touch of Dean's finger was all it took—his thighs tightened around Dean's hips, and Dean's head flew backwards against the pillow. His hips quivered and his dick went harder right before he grunted like he'd been gut punched. Sam's eyes rolled back at the increase in heat, hardness; he pulled a long, tight stroke upwards and the first pulse of come burned through him, scalding, doubled by Dean's simultaneous release as they fucked against each other in Sam's hot, sloppy grip. 

It was so fucking good it _hurt,_ and took him long, long minutes to come down—aftershocks burned through him until he dropped flat on Dean's chest, smearing their combined mess between them. 

Sam shuddered and sighed, smiling hard—this was everything he'd hoped for. Dean wrapped him up and kissed his hair and his forehead and his cheek and nudged Sam's face up until he was _kissing_ him—Sam almost cried, he was so happy. Because you kissed people you loved, Sam knew that. Dean's kisses were lingering and soft, his tongue was like warm velvet, soothing Sam's lips, warm…soft…warm….

 

"Hey, you're falling asleep on me, dude…" Dean's voice was low, and amused but also…tender. 

They were quiet for long, long moments; Sam had almost drifted off completely, wrapped around Dean, Dean's legs tangled with his and his chin resting in the tangled mess of Sam's hair. He felt Dean's breathing shift, his heart speed up, and Sam tensed. He prayed Dean wasn't about to mess him up forever.

"Hey, Sam, Sammy…remember when you, last year, when you…" Dean frowned, struggling to speak clearly, his mouth moving slowly. Sam burned with remembered humiliation but when he tried to pull himself away from the comfort of Dean's body, his grip tightened. 

"Sam, I've been thinking about it non-stop since then, really. I was scared, y'know, that I'd hurt you, twisted you in some way. But…like I said, I think about what happened a lot—good and bad. And when it’s a good thought, Sammy, when it's a good thought…" Dean's mouth pressed wetly against his chin, slipped upwards to press against Sam's mouth. "God, it's the best thought ever. More than anything, Sam, it's like…my whole life depends on you, okay? On you loving me."

"Dean, Dean, yes, Dean," and reached out for him, yanked him close, and smeared enthusiastic, heady kisses all over Dean's face and neck, his shoulder, his chin. He kissed and bit and babbled, and pushed himself against Dean like he was trying to crawl right inside him, make Dean and him one person, forever and ever together. He was so very happy. So very ready to burst with the freedom, _finally,_ to touch, more than touch. 

"You're the only one I'll ever love," Sam said, "My whole life too, Dean, nobody but you."

 

It couldn't be true then, not completely, not yet, but one day . . . it would be.

10-27-2014


End file.
